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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26620528">Breathe</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/themoonandotherslikeit/pseuds/themoonandotherslikeit'>themoonandotherslikeit</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU, Angst, Chef!Dean, F/F, F/M, Feminism, Feminist, Fluff, Lawyer!reader - Freeform, Love, New York City, Romance, Sam Wesson - Freeform, Smut, Supernatural AU - Freeform, deanxreader, fem!reader - Freeform, otp</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:15:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,245</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26620528</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/themoonandotherslikeit/pseuds/themoonandotherslikeit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After spending eight years in college, three interning, and another eight climbing the corporate ladder, Y/N was the youngest female in her firm's history to have a solid win streak. She spent her entire adult life working her ass off to be the best. She climbed the corporate ladder, stomping on anyone she had to along the way, because once she was at the top all of the bullshit would be over, her colleagues would respect her, and she would be happy… right?</p><p>Y/N’s life was great on paper, but in reality she came home at night to an empty apartment, Pad Thai leftovers, and a caseload that kept her from making any real connections with anyone outside of a courtroom. </p><p>After the biggest meeting of her career, Y/N went for a drink and met Dean Winchester, the handsome bartender at The Shop, who managed to say all of the right things to soften her hard shell. Was it possible that Y/N was wrong all of this time? Had she spent 2 decades focusing on her career when there was a man that could make her feel more alive than any job ever could? Will she slow down long enough to let herself fall in love with a man that was never a part of the plan? After years of holding her breath, will she finally let herself breathe again?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester x You, Dean x You, Reader X Sam Wesson, reader x Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story is written for my beautiful and talented friend and beta @dean-winchesters-bacon, thanks for always inspiring me and supporting my whims. Love you always. </p><p>Banner by the talented @talesmaniac89</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p>
  <em> Her </em>
</p><p>There’s an expectation for women in the workplace. High heels, tight skirt, don’t be a slut, don’t be a prude, keep it professional. Be strong, be sweet, <em> smile </em> . Don’t be a bitch, but don’t be a pushover. It was dizzying, and it was a dance that Y/N was well equipped to handle after years of practice. She knew the walk and the talk that was required when playing ball with the boys. After spending eight years in college, three interning, and another eight climbing the corporate ladder, she was the youngest female in her firm's history to have a solid win streak. Her last <em> twenty-two cases </em>were all wins. She was shooting for thirty, then fifty, then one hundred. Anything to keep the men guessing. </p><p>They were always asking her to go out for drinks after work, but not in the same way that they asked each other. They didn’t want to pick her brain about her expertise, or shoot the shit. They wanted to put a hand on her thigh and take her home to bed. She was invited for a <em> cocktail </em> not to poker night. So she stopped bothering. She painted her lips red, and let her resting bitch face take over. When they started calling her the Dragon Lady, she got it engraved on a plaque for her desk, because come <em> on </em>boys, she grew up as an overweight girl in the midwest with braces and pimples, spending her free time reading Harry Potter and memorizing Broadway songs, she’d definitely been called worse. </p><p>It was a gloomy, rainy autumn day. Y/N’s favorite. The air was cool, damp, and completely calming. There was no risk of boob sweat, or too many layers hiding her favorite dress underneath her stylish, black pea coat. </p><p>The curtains in her office were open, exposing a water speckled New York City. The best place in the entire world. Sometimes it was nearly impossible to even see the sky from the ground, but from the twenty first floor of her building she could see the dark gray sky, grumbling and heavy with rain. She was familiar with that pressure, weight pushing down until everything falls apart. </p><p>She wondered if powerful men worried about the same things she did. How she stood, spoke, <em> walked </em>. The way she smiled, cocked her head. What people thought if she looked out the window for too long. If she seemed too longing. But instead of asking them, she just worked twice as hard. She woke up and painted on her face, hiding behind layers of makeup, and she played pretend. It was better than the alternative. </p><p>A knock came to her door. “Come in,” she said as she popped a mint into her mouth and saved the brief she was working on, sliding her sore feet back into her high heels. She glanced up over her screen, and her body immediately relaxed in anticipation. “Sam,” she said smoothly. </p><p>Sam Wesson was an associate at her firm, a damn good lawyer, and her one exception to the drink rule. Maybe it was his sweet smile, his shaggy hair, the way he could argue his way out of anything, or his six foot four inches and all that implied. Likely the latter. “I wanted your advice on something, Y/N, if you’re free?” </p><p>The corners of her mouth tugged into a smile, and she shrugged nonchalantly. “I can make time, Sam, but you’ll owe me.” </p><p>“I’ll make up for it,” he promised, stepping through the door to her office. </p><p>The first time it happened, it was an accident. It was the night before his first day at the office and she met him at the bar across the street. One tequila shot turned into five, which ended with him tangled in her sheets. He was a transfer from their Chicago office, which he declined to mention between sucking limes. Three years of fucking in her office, and no commitment had her in a good place, a comfortable place. They didn’t spend the night or eat meals together, if you didn’t count when they were paired on a case. She didn’t know his family or his middle name or the way he took his coffee, and she honestly preferred it that way. It was easy. When he would get a girlfriend, they’d stop having sex, and when he would break it off, he would always end up back between her legs. It was simple. </p><p>Plus, she read somewhere that a healthy sex life kept oxygen flowing to your brain, which made you smarter, and who was she to argue with facts? </p><p>“What can I help you with, Sam?” She asked, leaning forward on her desk, her eyes locked with his hazel ones. </p><p>He looked flushed- almost childlike- as he looked at her with a softness that made her stomach flip. “I missed you,” he said, his voice low and rough. </p><p>He was sweet, but she didn’t want sweet. He couldn't be missing <em> her. </em>“Come here,” she commanded, as she stood. Even in her high heels, she was almost an entire foot shorter than him, but it didn’t matter. She wasn’t the inferior one in the room. Not when it came to Sam, not when it came to sex. </p><p>He walked to her and placed his hands on her waist and leaned down to kiss her, but her fingers touched his lips to stop him. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, because I am. I needed a break, but why are you here?” </p><p>“I told you…”</p><p>“Come on, Sam.” </p><p>He let out a sigh, his thumbs rubbing circles on her waist. “Just Simmons busting my balls again.” </p><p>He came to her for comfort. </p><p>She knew for a fact that she wasn’t the maternal type. She wasn’t the kind of woman that would scoop up a man and hold him against her breast and make him feel all better. The concept had bile rising in her throat. It felt like leaving a hole in her armor, or showing up to a meeting without her panties on. </p><p>She felt exposed. </p><p>“Sam I…” </p><p>“I know, I’m sorry,” he admitted sheepishly. “I’m not trying to push.” </p><p>She let out a frustrated huff of air. He was too goddamned <em> nice </em>. He was a literal prince charming standing right in front of her, and she didn’t deserve it. She wasn’t a nice girl. She couldn’t be. Not if she wanted to be respected, because the moment you start acting like a Disney princess is the moment that the men start assuming you need to be saved. Haven’t they seen Frozen? Don’t they know that modern women save themselves? Not in her experience. </p><p>So she wore her Dragon Lady crown proudly and doesn’t get attached. It was just easier that way. At least that’s what she told herself. </p><p>“I don’t want to talk,” she said, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling his lips to hers. His fingers hooked the zipper on the back of her dress, pulling it down slowly as if he was trying to trace her spine, drawing it all out. She was good at this. In the office, power was a struggle. It was a constant fight, but sex was another story. In the courtroom men didn’t want to be dominated, but the bedroom was a completely different story. Sam didn’t ask her to be docile, to give in, to be <em> quiet. </em>When they slept together she made the demands. She silenced him with a kiss, because sometimes, not saying anything speaks louder than words ever could. </p><p>
  <em> Dean </em>
</p><p>The bar was so goddamn slow, Dean Winchester thought he was going to lose his mind. He was leaning over, scribbling down new recipe ideas onto the back of a discarded receipt from the only customer he’d had that day. </p><p>The bar was right at the front of the restaurant, The Shop. It was a more industrial building, exposed brick, concrete floors, beams with hanging chandeliers made by local, up and coming artists. But guests didn’t come from far and wide for the aesthetic, they came for the food. The notorious chef was known for his mysterious nature, and luxurious menu. Guests never knew what they’d get when they arrived, because the menu constantly changed. They called him The Ghost, because he managed to sneak past everyone, slipping through the darkness to evade all of the press, while climbing popularity. Some thought it was a group, that The Ghost wasn’t a single man at all, but Dean knew the truth. </p><p>It was gearing toward the end of the day, and he knew everything would pick up again once dinner started. </p><p>“I can really handle the rest of the shift alone, Dean,” Jo said, drying the last glass from the sink. A blonde lock of hair fell in front of her eye as she leaned towards him. </p><p>“I won’t abandon you,” he said with a wide grin. “Not leaving you alone with all of this fun.” He gestured to the near-empty bar.</p><p>“Dean,” she said, placing the glass next to the ten others just like it. “What are you avoiding?” </p><p>“Me? Nothing.” <em> Everything </em>, he thought. </p><p>“You should go. You’re always here.”</p><p>“I love it here. Plus, I’m covering.”</p><p>“<em> You </em>don’t need to be covering, Winchester. You are past all that. Or at least you should be,” Jo said, eyeing him, challenging him. </p><p>He waved her off dismissively. “You know I can’t get away from this place.” </p><p>It was all a part of something else, the restaurant sat on a street among hundreds of others, weaving together like a tapestry to make <em> New York City. </em> The Big Apple, just a small fruit nestled into a country that, while grand, is just a small piece of a larger world, tucked into a universe of a billion other stars. In the reality of it all, how one man spent his afternoon was null and void compared to the universe. Dean wanted to tell Jo that, but the thought of having to explain it all made him exhausted, so he refrained. That happened to him a lot. There weren’t a lot of people that understood him. He wasn’t always <em> easy. </em>But the way he saw the world was complicated, and he didn’t know how to unsee it once he started. </p><p>“Can’t? Or won’t?” </p><p>Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. It’d be easier just to listen to her, walk away, and find something else productive to do, but he knew that outside the sky was heavy with clouds and once dinner began the commuters would pile in off the street for drinks and then she would be swamped. No matter how annoyed he was, he couldn’t leave her alone for that. </p><p> “Won’t,” he said with a grunt. His eyes flickered to hers, and he let out a heavy sigh. There was no sense in hiding it, because it would come out anyway. Everything always did with time. “I got the wedding save the date card.” </p><p>Jo’s face softened at that and it made his insides twist and recoil. “Dean I’m sorry.” </p><p>“Fuck, don’t look at me like that. I’m not some sad puppy, okay? I’m fine.” </p><p>“I know that.” She turned away from him and plucked their best bottle of tequila off the shelf and poured him a shot, sliding it to him with a grim expression. “To forget.” </p><p>It was a poor choice, and Dean knew that, but the alcohol connoisseur in him couldn’t deny a drink-- at least that's what he told himself. He shouldn’t drink at work, but there was no one around that he had to answer to, so he brought the clear liquid to his lips and swallowed it. She filled the glass again and nodded to him. He held it up to his lips and he sighed, fogging the glass. “Pour yourself one.” </p><p>“Sure thing, boss.” </p><p>He rolled his eyes and they put the lips of their glasses together. “To exes,” she offered. </p><p>“To obligation,” he countered. <em> Clink.  </em></p><p>“Here here.” </p><p>She poured each of them another. </p><p>He picked up the glass and quirked an eyebrow at her. “To staying employed.” </p><p>“I hear you,” Jo said with an ornery grin, downing her shot. She collected the glasses and began to wash them. “I won’t push my luck, but seriously, you deserve to have some fun. Find a hot piece of tail and forget about Lis. She doesn’t deserve to be on your mind.” </p><p>“Knowing something and following through with it are two totally different monsters, Jo.” </p><p>“They say admitting the problem is the first step.” </p><p>“Oh yeah? And what’s the second.”</p><p>She shrugged, drying the glasses. “Hell if I know.” </p><p>
  <em> Her  </em>
</p><p>It was the meeting of all meetings, the one she had been waiting for. It was a murder trial, the defendant was a Wall Street man, accused of killing his mistress. It was the biggest case their firm had ever landed, and Y/N wanted it. It would not only yield a big pay out, but also a shiny corner office with her name engraved on a golden plaque outside of her door. She was practically salivating thinking about it, and she refused to apologize for her excitement. She worked too damn hard to let anyone underplay her success. </p><p>If she aced this, she would be a shoo in for Partner. There was a buzz around the office that they had a spot opening, and she wanted it more than she wanted anything else. </p><p>She sat down in her seat, practically buzzing from excitement inside, but her face was relaxed and unimpressed, just like she’d practiced. </p><p>Her ankles were crossed, lipstick pristine, and hair smoothed after it had been expertly tousled from Sam’s fingers running through it. Usually touching her hair was a <em> no, </em>but in that moment she didn’t have much to complain about so she let it slide-- this time.</p><p>Will Sacks sat up in his seat, and the chattering stopped around the room. </p><p>Y/N was nestled in a chair between a dozen other men all wearing the same boring suit, splashed with a variety of ties. Sam sat next to her, his eyes finally peeling away from her as Mr. Sacks cleared his throat. “I know you’re all eager to hear my decision, so I won’t bother beating around the bush,” he began, his voice booming in an authoritative way that only a man of his position could demand from a room. His position allowed him to have a pull that Y/N worked constantly for, and it made her furious. It made her hate him, if she was being honest. Sometimes she thought about drawing crude images on his picture’s around the office, but she refrained. Someday she would be in his position, and she would hope that the men in her office would have the same decorum that she possessed. </p><p>She hoped that day would be today.  </p><p>“I gave this a lot of thought. This decision was not made lightly— I need that to be very apparent to you all. There were a lot of amazing, overqualified candidates. This was one of the most difficult decisions I’ve ever had to make. That being said, I’m the boss, so it’s my job to make those tough decisions.” </p><p>His eyes scanned the table and landed on Y/N, and she could’ve sworn that her heart stopped. This was the moment she’d been waiting for all of this time. This is what she worked her ass off for. It all came down to this moment, and she couldn’t believe it was finally here. </p><p>She had practiced her gratitude acceptance in the mirror. A slight nod and a smile, no teeth, not too snotty, grateful - but deserving. She deserved this. She had <em> earned </em>this. </p><p>“I think you all know who deserves this.” </p><p><em> Yes! </em>She practically screamed and bounced in her seat. She did deserve it, more than anyone. She tossed her hair over one shoulder, and allowed a smile to overtake her lips. She couldn’t help it. She closed her eyes and tried to center herself. She couldn’t very well squeal right there in the office, they’d think she was insane. </p><p>“Sam Wesson, congratulations son.” </p><p>Her eyes flew open. “What the actual fuck?” </p><p>It wasn’t until all of the heads snapped in her direction that she realized she had spoken out loud.</p><p>Her face was flushed, her blood boiling under her skin. She looked to Sam, and he looked terrified. His pupils were wide, and his mouth slack. Not more than an hour before, when he was fucking her on her desk, whispering in her ear about how she was going to get the case. She wondered if he knew. He didn’t seem like a snake, but he was a lawyer regardless. They were <em> all </em>snakes, if she was being honest. </p><p>Her eyes shot directly to Will. “I deserve the case, Will. You know I do. I’ve been here longer than Sam. I work my ass off for this company…” </p><p>“You’re getting emotional, Y/N. I’m going to have to ask you to sit back down,” Mr. Sacks said calmly.</p><p>She hadn’t even noticed that she was standing. Her jaw was tight, as she unknowingly grinded her teeth. She was fucking pissed, if she was being honest. Angry tears stung her eyes, and she cursed herself for being an angry crier. “I’m <em> not </em>emotional. You’d never say that to a fucking man.” </p><p>“Language, Y/N.” </p><p>“I hear the way you motherfuckers talk to each other,” she snaps. “I know you talk that way to each other. So stop talking down to me for five fucking seconds and just admit that this is some sexist bullshit.” </p><p>Years of being abused in the workplace were bubbling up inside of her. She was a can of soda that had been shaken over and over again, and then cracked open. How was she expected <em> not </em>to explode under the circumstances? The men had been dancing on a fault line, and then had the audacity to look shocked when the earth cracked open and swallowed them whole. </p><p>“Sit <em> down </em>.” </p><p>Sam reached for her arm and as his fingers brushed her skin, she fucking lost it. “No!” She screamed. </p><p>The pressure was building. </p><p>She could hear her heartbeat in her ears, the whooshing of blood under her skin. </p><p>She gathered her documents with shaking hands. “You sit the fuck down!” </p><p>The corners of her vision were red, and looking back she would be embarrassed, ashamed, but in the moment she was too pissed. It was like her skin was lit on fire. It was like the first time a man grabbed her ass, and she punched him in the jaw. It’s not like she was known for rage or anything. She was usually really well put together, but a woman could only take so much.</p><p>Y/N turned to catch one of the men in her office recording her with his phone, and if there were any straws left inside of her to break, that was the last one. Suddenly her papers were flying out of her hands, and she was lunging for the phone, but admittedly, it looked like she was going for his throat. Maybe she was, if she was being honest. She was screaming and cursing, and it felt like she was watching herself from outside of her body. She couldn’t move or act. It was like sleep paralysis, but so much worse. She was going to be bumped. She would get all the bad cases, moved to a cubicle. She could feel her entire life fall through her fingers like sand. </p><p>The man that was recording her screamed, and in a different life it would’ve been funny, but as she grabbed for it clumsily and smashed it under her heel with a <em> crack </em>, it really wasn’t. </p><p>“Security!” </p><p>
  <em> Fuck.  </em>
</p><p>She glanced around, making eye contact with the eleven other men who all cowered behind the table, including Sam, who looked like he was staring at a loose lion. She was so screwed. </p><p>She grabbed her binder off the floor, smoothed out her skirt, flipped off the room and walked out. She had enough class to be able to walk herself out of the building. She just needed to get her purse. </p><p> Her office wasn’t far from the conference room, thank god, because she knew she had a few minutes before she was drug out by her hair. She couldn’t let that happen, she was humiliated enough. </p><p>She pushed into her office and grabbed her purse off of her desk and locked her computer. Her hands shook as the reality of everything sat in. She thought she was going to throw up. </p><p>Sam poked his head in her office. “Y/N? What the hell happened back there?”</p><p>
  <em> God, does this guy have a death wish?  </em>
</p><p>She looked up at Sam. “You’re the last person I want to see right now, Wesson, okay?”</p><p>“I didn’t ask for this…” He offered, his voice pleading. </p><p>“That’s the thing, Sam. You don’t <em> have </em>to ask for it. That’s what pisses me off the most. You just fucking get it. I know I should be the bigger person and say congratulations, but fuck it, I can’t. I’m not that big of a person.”</p><p>
  <em> Dean </em>
</p><p>The buzz from the shots Jo and Dean had done earlier were long faded. He would’ve needed a whiskey IV to erase the pain and frustration of seeing Lisa’s wedding invitation in his mailbox. Not that he wanted to be with her, because he didn’t, but it still sucked. He was human, afterall. </p><p>The afternoon had been fine. It was busy enough to distract him, but not busy enough to drain him completely. The bar was a little more crowded as they neared dinnertime, and he was itching for any kind of distraction. </p><p>Dean Winchester never believed in fate, not really, it was all too <em> obvious </em>. He didn’t think the universe was that well organized, but just as he stood behind the bar, wishing for something to walk into the room to pull his mind from Lisa, there she was.</p><p>She wore a pencil skirt and a defeated expression. Her hair was pulled back and secured with a pen, in an almost sexy school teacher way that made Dean stand up a little straighter. She sat down on the stool in front of him, and sat her bag down on the bartop with a <em> thump </em>. </p><p>He raised his eyebrows. “Good afternoon, name’s Dean. What can I get ya?” </p><p>Her eyes met his, and she ran her tongue along her bottom lip before speaking. “Drunk. You can get me drunk.” </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p>
  <b>Two </b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dean</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Drunk. You can get me drunk.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He raised an eyebrow and chuckled to himself. He appreciated a woman who knew what she wanted. “That I can do. Any preference for your poison?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman shook her head and pressed her forehead directly onto the bar top. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. I know just the remedy to that,” Dean said, gesturing to her. He turned back to the bar and started to make her his special cocktail. It was the one he had when days were especially bad. He shook the contents to mix it before pouring it into a martini glass and twisting a lemon peel into the bottom. He slid it to the woman, leaning in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked unbelievably high strung. Her hair was messy, like she’d been running her hands through it, and suddenly he could see her in his bed, her hair sprawled out on his pillow. The idea shocked him, and he peeled his eyes away from her. He hadn’t thought about anyone since Lisa. The well had been dry and he’d been fine with it. If he was being honest, he didn’t want to risk it all again. It hurt too fucking bad the first time. It was easy to pour himself into everything else in his life than to toe that fine line, but looking at her stirred something within him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” he began, his voice rougher than he intended it to be. Her eyes flickered up to his, and she sat up, taking the glass between her fingers. “Is it work or a man that’s got you down?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Both,” she muttered, placing the glass at her lips. She downed half of the martini in one big gulp, and she pulled up the bar napkin to dry her lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wanna talk about it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I wanted to talk about it, I’d go see a therapist.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m basically a licensed therapist,” Dean said with an ornery grin. “Comes with being behind the bar. I listen to people’s issues all day. I really should be paid more for it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should complain to the owner,” she said softly, her eyes meeting his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiled a little at that. “Yeah, maybe I should.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She exhaled sharply through her nose and leaned back in her chair, finishing off the rest of the martini. She slid the glass back to him and pointed to it as if to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>another</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “I’m Y/N.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smirked a bit and took the glass, already refilling it. “Y/N, you must have an iron stomach.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To be a woman is to have an iron </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sounded a little bitter, and it made Dean wonder who hurt her. He’d seen the same look in the mirror himself. “And you do, don’t you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She took another drink and looked at him thoughtfully. “Here’s the thing, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dean. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I work my ass off. I work five times harder than any man I work with, but yet I still get picked over for promotions. I spend so much time at work, and doing shit for work that sometimes it feels like I live there. I’m there more than anywhere else. I don’t have friends or relationships because I spent so much fucking time bleeding into that job.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean made a face, his lips tightening. He nodded swiftly and leaned against the bartop. “I get that. You want the place to bleed for you as much as you bleed for it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just want to be appreciated. I just want… I want them to see me, you know? No one does. I swear I could walk up to my boss and punch him in his teeth, and he wouldn’t even notice. Am I invisible?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckled and shook his head. “No. Trust me on that. You, Y/N are </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>invisible. I see you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What a line! Does that get you anywhere with women?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean was taken back a bit, because no, it wasn’t a line. The fact that she thought he was hitting on her made his skin itch. He hadn’t bothered hitting on anyone in a long ass time. “That wasn’t a line.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyebrow quirked. “Yeah, I’m sure it isn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me ask you something, Y/N. Do you assume that every man you interact with wants to sleep with you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked surprised, taken aback. He wasn’t initially sure if it was the question that caught her off guard, or the fact that he actually said it out loud. It was interesting, watching her physically compose herself. He watched her shoulders roll back, her expression relax, and her lips press together firmly before her eyes reached his again. “No, but I always have to be prepared that they will.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean snorted with a laugh, he couldn’t help it. What kind of inflated ego did that woman possess? His interest in her was quickly waning the longer they talked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her nostrils flared as soon as he laughed, and she leaned in, her hands flat on the bar top. “Listen here, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dean</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I know men like you. You’re confident, handsome, and you think you’re hot shit. Well guess what? So does every other two bit guy I come across. No one gives you shit if you hook up with a random woman at a bar, but the woman you pick up is suddenly branded a whore. There is no winning situation for me. Men constantly sexualize me, and it has nothing to do with my ego… it is just the fact that I’m a woman. I say yes, and I’m a slut. I say no, and I’m a prude. So why entertain it at all? People constantly think I’m a bitch anyway, so I may as well lean into it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was stopped in his tracks, and he could feel his mouth hanging open. People typically didn’t walk in and insult him. Dean Winchester wasn’t exactly used to being called out, and it definitely made him feel uncomfortable. She was right, though, and it was pretty obvious that she’d been pushed far past the limit long before she walked into the bar. “I never really thought of it that way,” he admitted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a luxury that you didn’t even realize you had.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nodded slowly and poured a set of shots and slid her one. “I know it doesn’t erase what everyone else has done, but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her</span>
  </em>
  <b>
    
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Y/N was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>used to men apologizing, and when they did apologize, they rarely seemed sincere. She had to admit that Dean’s words, and the softness to his expression caught her off guard. It did help, though, more than she could ever express. “I know I’m a lot,” she confessed before swallowing the shot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do people tell you that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She raised an eyebrow. “Only my entire life.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t let them do that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because for the right person you’ll be just right. You’ll never be too much for the right person.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Y/N snorted and slid him the glass back, pointing to it like she wanted another. “I’m not super confident that person exists.” She watched him fill the glass with precision that only came from filling hundreds more like it. She had never been interested in bartenders. They didn’t have enough drive for her. If Y/N was going to date, it had to be something that could keep up with her career. She was driven and a man with no drive had no appeal to her. No matter how green his eyes were, but she figured that since she may be unemployed, maybe now wasn’t the time to be picky. “But now I guess I’ll have plenty of time to find them.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I may have caused a little bitty scene at work,” she said, her voice defeated and her tongue heavy with alcohol. “I’m not sure I can ever show my face there again.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“From what you’ve said, they’d be idiots to let you leave.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She took the shot, swallowing it in one gulp. Her head was starting to spin, and she tried to recount the last meal she had that didn’t consist of black coffee and a handful of almonds. “I’m the idiot,” she slurred slightly. “Do you ever do something and </span>
  <em>
    <span>instantly </span>
  </em>
  <span>regret it? I’m usually so… good, you know? I’m a planner. I plan everything out. This time I just fucked it up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pulled out her purse and started digging for her wallet so she could pay the cute bartender before she made a bigger fool of herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about that,” he said, waving her wallet away. “It’s on the house.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her chest tightened and she felt a ball of emotion creep up her throat, pressing firmly at the base. “You must think I’m completely pathetic.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t. Trust me, I don’t,” he said, moving around from behind the bar to stand next to her.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dean-o, you’re good at your job. I asked you to get me drunk and you </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I’m sure you get a lot of tips and you’d never ever have to lose your mind like a complete psychopath to get noticed.” She was leaning forward and tapping his chest with her index finger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean-o?” he asked with a low chuckle. He took her hand in his, possibly to stop her from poking his sternum, or possibly just to cradle it close. “You’re right. I haven’t had to lose my mind to be noticed. I don’t think this is about me, though. Is it? It’s about how your job is treating you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes stung. “You’re so… smooth.” She closed her eyes tightly, half way to keep herself from bursting into emotional-drunk crying, and halfway to stop the room from spinning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“About as smooth as crunchy peanut butter. You going to be okay? Can you stand up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she insisted, her eyes opening. She found him looking at her, his apple green eyes sparkling. Even in the low light of the bar she could make out every freckle that dusted his cheekbones, and the strawberry whiskers that softened his jawline. He was absolutely beautiful. “I don’t need a man’s help.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He let go of her hand to let her stand, but at an attempt, she found herself swaying. His hands landed on her hips to keep her from teetering too much to one side. “Asking for help doesn’t make you weak, Y/N. It just makes you human.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And it makes you… what? Prince Charming?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The corner of his mouth tugged up at that. “Somethin’ like that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her vision was fuzzy along the edges, peppered like static and as the world faded to black, she felt Dean’s arms scoop her up, one arm supporting her back and the other under her legs. Her head rested against his chest, and she breathed him in. He smelled like kitchen spices, and it reminded her of Thanksgiving with her grandma, standing on her tiptoes to steal a taste of pumpkin pie and a spoonful of stuffing. She let out a breath that she didn’t realize she was holding and let herself snuggle closer and drift away to the sway of his arms as he walked.  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dean</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean?” Castiel, the restaurant's sous chef, asked as Dean toed his way into the kitchen with Y/N passed out in his arms. “Need me to call an ambulance?” He had an ornery flash in his deep blue eyes as he stirred something in a large pot. The smell was intoxicating, and Dean hated that he’d spent so long outside of the kitchen. He much preferred the smell of cooking to the smell of spilt liquor and desperation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, she’s alright. I was just going to take her home.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas quirked an eyebrow in response, the smallest expression changing his normal cool, collected facade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you watch the bar for me until Benny comes in to take over?” Dean asked stiffly, not needing the third degree from his friend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can do that,” he said with a nod before calling to the other side of the kitchen, his voice echoing off the metal pots and pans hanging above their heads. “Kevin, can you come stir this?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aye aye captain!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean chuckled and shook his head. “Thanks, guys.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get out of here,” Cas said dismissively. “We are tired of seeing you around here all the time anyway.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hurried out the back door, Y/N still in his arms. He stepped out into the cool autumn air, still heavy with rain, and he asked himself what the fuck he thought he was doing. He didn’t know this woman! It would be best for him to put her in a cab and send her on her way, but he had to admit that she looked really cute resting against his chest. Especially since she had stopped ranting </span>
  <em>
    <span>at him</span>
  </em>
  <span> like he personally sabotaged her entire life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He unzipped her purse that he had slipped over his forearm and dug around for her wallet to see if he could find some kind of identification. Inside he found cards with her name on them, a punch card for a local coffee shop, and an unopened condom. He could respect that. New Yorkers didn’t drive, so a lot didn’t have a driver’s license, but it was out of the ordinary to not have </span>
  <em>
    <span>some </span>
  </em>
  <span>kind of identification. He sighed. How the hell was he supposed to get her home? He didn’t even know where she lived! Whenever she woke up he would have to explain the importance of having an ID with her at all times. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without allowing himself to consider the implications, he hailed a cab and slid in the back, buckling Y/N in. He gave the driver his address, and hoped to a god he didn’t believe in that she would wake up before they arrived at his apartment. But Dean Winchester was never exactly a </span>
  <em>
    <span>lucky </span>
  </em>
  <span>man. He paid the driver and scooped her out of the backseat. He could already hear the voice of his brother echoing inside of his head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Dean you can’t just bring random women home when they’re passed out.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>To which he would respond, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“She’s not random. Not really.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Even the thought left him reeling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He made it up to his apartment and unlocked the door, flipping on the lamp and casting a warm glow throughout the modern apartment. It was a spacious studio with old wooden floors and an extra large king size bed that took up the majority of the space, tucked behind a folding room separator. The most important space in the apartment was the kitchen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atop the beautiful granite counter tops rested state-of-the-art appliances, pristinely polished but not unused. It was the kitchen of someone who loved the art of cooking. It was the kitchen of an artist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean walked to the bed and laid her down in the middle, her head resting on the pillows. “Y/N?” he asked softly, brushing a hair out of her eye and behind her ear. The lights from the skyscrapers outside of his window danced across her sleeping features, her lips barely parted letting out soft, peaceful, sleeping breaths. When she didn’t stir, he slid her heels off and placed them on the ground. He grabbed a knit blanket and laid it over her, hoping silently that when she woke up she didn’t completely panic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was something about her that felt different, and he knew that Dean Winchester ten years ago would’ve kicked his ass for thinking it, but he thought it nonetheless. She looked exhausted from fighting a fight that he couldn’t even begin to understand. She was painted in power and grace, but had a bite that licked out with flames that burned and cut all at once. She could hold her own, and she was clearly used to living that way. She was the kind of woman that was hard to love, and he recognized that all too well, because he used to be the same exact way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closed the room separator, kicked off his boots, and rolled up his sleeves as he walked into the kitchen. The light from the fridge bled onto the tile floor as he pulled out ingredients. Some people drank when they were stressed, some cleaned or made bad decisions… Dean baked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked them together, flour, vanilla, pinch of cinnamon. He pulled three black bananas out of his freezer and began to mash them together, his arms moving like the instrument was an extension of himself. Cooking was the one thing that Dean did that kept his mind quiet, he could focus on it and make something delicious. It was the one thing he was really good at. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he combined the ingredients with care, he thought about </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He considered what it would feel like if someone came into his kitchen and denied him, told him that he wasn’t good enough, or that he didn’t belong. It would be devastating after years of perfecting his skills. No wonder she was so upset. He wrinkled his nose as he poured the mixture into a pan and placed it into the oven. He leaned against the counter and watched the orange glow from his oven, still feeling unbelievably restless, her presence in his bed like a beacon signalling him to where he was supposed to be. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Y/N woke up groggy with a pressure on the inside of her skull threatening to crack her head open and spill everything out. Her temples throbbed insistently and a wave of nausea hit her as soon as she opened her eyes. The gloomy, dark skies hid the sun from bleeding in through the open curtains, but it still felt too bright for her hangover. Everything felt slow and sluggish, like she was trying to walk under water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and a streak of mascara darkened her skin. She rarely forgot to take off her makeup, and she knew her skin would punish her for it later. She yawned and squinted at the window. She didn’t usually leave her black out curtains up… in fact, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>opened them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are moments that are subtle, brief and fleeting like the first flake of snow of the season. Sometimes they go completely unnoticed and unremembered. Other moments are big, grand, powerful enough to move mountains and change a person’s life forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Y/N looked around the apartment, her surroundings coming together like a puzzle that finally clicked together seamlessly, she experienced one of those astronomical, mounting moving moments. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was not her apartment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The fuck…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quickly orienting herself, she tried to find </span>
  <em>
    <span>any </span>
  </em>
  <span>kind of identifying information to tell her where she ended up and </span>
  <em>
    <span>who </span>
  </em>
  <span>she may have gone home with. It was not like her to be so reckless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The apartment was tidy, but, by the simple decor and smell of the sheets she was able to discern that the apartment definitely belonged to a man. She pinched the bridge of her nose to quiet an oncoming headache. She didn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>remember </span>
  </em>
  <span>a man from the night before that she could’ve gone home with. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh how the mighty have fallen, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she thought solemnly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glanced under the blanket that was hiding her bottom half, happy to find that she still had her dress and panties in place. She had to admit, though, that the situation was confusing. She didn’t have sex last night, that she was fairly sure of, but in that case… Why was she in a strangers apartment? It didn’t make any sense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She slipped out of bed, finding her heels resting neatly on the floor next to the bed, placed with care. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who would take her home and just tuck her into bed? That was something a friend did, or a boyfriend. Her stomach twisted as Sam’s face flashed in her mind. His kind hazel eyes wrinkling at the edges as he smiled at her. He would take care of her in that way without question, and that thought terrified her. She’d avoided his apartment for so long for that exact reason. She couldn’t risk him getting the wrong idea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She picked up her shoes, not wanting to risk clicking on the hardwood floors and alerting the mystery man. As she poked her head around the room separator she was hit with the smell of cooking. Her mouth watered immediately at the savory smell of meat sizzling on the stove and something sweet that she couldn't quite place. Y/N did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>cook. Her kitchen was purely aesthetic. She wouldn't even know how to turn her oven on, let alone use it, so the smells were new and warming. If the food tasted as good as it smelled, she may have a reason not to sneak out after all. Her stomach growled in agreement, and she resisted the urge to shush it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh good, you’re awake,” a voice said, gruffly and familiar. Her eyes followed the sound of the voice and caught his green eyes from across the apartment. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The bartender! You went home with the goddamn bartender?! You’re better than this, Y/N. You aren’t twenty anymore. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Thank you for your hospitality,” she said, her voice strained and awkward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth and his eyebrow quirked in response. “I’m almost done with breakfast. Do you have time to have a seat?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shifted her weight awkwardly. The mix of her own vulnerability, the smell of bacon grease, a hangover, and how undeniably attractive he was had her reeling. The answer should’ve been no immediately. She had enough problems without adding a man to the mix, but yet there she was, considering it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You good, Y/N?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of her name snapped her out in an instant. Her shoulders rolled back, and her grip tightened on her heels. “I’m fine. I should get going.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Big day?” he asked, his eyes flashing with something mischievous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Every day is a big day if you make it big.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds exhausting.” He pulled a pan off the stove. “Do you ever have days where you do nothing?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She squinted at him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This guy is kidding, right? </span>
  </em>
  <span>“That doesn’t sound very productive.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I guess that’s a no,” he said with a chuckle. “You should try it. No plans. Just relax and go with the flow.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>plan </span>
  </em>
  <span>to have a day like that? So it’s not really without a plan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got me there.” Dean laughed, crossing his arms. “Do you always plan out your own days?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. What kind of question is that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was just wonderin’ if you ever let anyone else plan things for you.” He shrugged. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely not.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walked toward her, his height overcoming her as he approached. He wore a pair of jeans, socked feet, and a black Led Zeppelin t-shirt. His hair was messy from sleep, but his eyes were wide, awake, and engaged. “Are you afraid to lose control?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me plan a day for you, Y/N.” His voice was silky and thick like honey, tickling her cheeks as he brushed her hair behind her ear. Her eyes flickered up to meet his, feeling taken aback from his sudden intensity. She half expected her skin to catch fire from the electricity bouncing between their chests to the beat of her racing heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean I…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, before you say anything hear me out,” he said, putting his hands up in surrender. Her lips pressed together, giving him only a moment to make his case - which was more than she allowed most people. “I know you’ve got all the reasons in the world to say no. You don’t know me, you have no reason to trust me, but you’re a professional. I can see that, hell </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone </span>
  </em>
  <span>can see it just by lookin’ at you. Y/N, you should know that there is risk in the world, and you could miss out on some of the best things in life if you don’t take it. Someone took a chance on you once, didn’t they?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was breathing heavily, obviously a little worked up, and the sight of his body twisted up in ragged breaths sent a chill up her spine. The risk he was talking about was not the same thing as her job, as law school, as every tough case she had ever taken. He was out of line trying to make it seem like they were even on the same plane of reality. Even though she knew all of that, she still found herself wanting the impossible, the outrageous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take a risk on me, Y/N.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wanted a life that could move mountains. She always had. She wanted to say yes. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dean</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Later</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold up, hold up. You’re going on a </span>
  <em>
    <span>date</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean shrugged, running his fingers through his hair in the bathroom mirror, unable to keep one spot from sticking straight up. “I don’t know if it’s a date or not. I’m just gonna give her some fun. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>a date.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sammy, you need to relax,” Dean said, waving his younger, half brother away. Dean’s parents had divorced after he was born, and a year later Dean’s mom fell in love with Sam’s dad, and the boys had been together ever since. “My romantic life isn’t your concern.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure it is,” Sam said with a laugh, sitting on Dean’s bed. He moved the room divider when he’d entered the apartment to give himself somewhere comfortable to sit, and was currently lounging across the large mattress. “I don’t want you to die alone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nobody is dyin’.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We are all dying, Dean. Technically.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re insufferable.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t see your point,” Sam said with a frown, his eyebrows coming together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s mom?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’d like to see you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean exhaled sharply from his nose. He didn’t see Mary nearly enough. She lived out in New Jersey and it still felt like a betrayal to his dad going out to visit her frequently. Plus, he spent most of his days in The Shop. There was always an excuse, even though none of them seemed good enough. “Miss her too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should call her.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean poked his head out of the bathroom to eye his brother. “I don’t need a lecture, Sammy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>asked.” His brother was quiet for a beat before sitting up. “So… I got the case.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>What?!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Why didn’t you lead with that! I would’ve taken the night off to take you out to celebrate. This is huge news!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, you’re going to work? I thought you were going on a date?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean shrugged, “She said I could have her time Sunday morning. From eight to ten thirty.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You want to go out with someone that stringent?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean shoulders lifted again, “Guess so.” He walked out and sat next to his brother. “But this isn’t about me. I’m really proud of you, brother. You’ve worked really hard for this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam’s cheeks reddened a bit, and he reached behind his head, scratching his neck awkwardly. “Thanks. I’ve really been trying, and I’m excited for the opportunity. I know they’re taking a chance on me and it means a lot.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re making the right choice, Sammy. You’re damn good at your job. It’s too late for me to get a replacement, but come by, and I’ll get you dinner and drinks on the house.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll just ride with you then. We can split a cab.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean grinned at his brother, squeezing his shoulder. “You got it, kid.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could still see little Sammy with his bright eyes staring up at him. He had all of these grand dreams that were so big. For a while he wanted to be president, and Dean believed that he could do it. Sam had the heart and the drive to do anything he put his mind to, maybe that was the draw Dean  had to Y/N. She reminded him of the same fire he saw in his brother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about the woman you’re talking to?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping. “I dunno Dean. She might hate me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’d be stupid to hate you, kid. You’re a goddamned catch.” He slid his wallet and phone in his pocket, and offered a hand to Sammy so he could pull him up. “Fight for her. That’s all you can do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His little brother looked up at him knowingly and nodded, clasping their hands together. He pulled Sam up, looking up at his younger brother who towered over him by at least three inches. “I will,” Sam agreed, “I’ll fight for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. Now let's go get you a drink.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or five.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or five.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give me your hand.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Y/N raised her eyebrow before offering her palm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fiery red head in front of her consisted of her one guilty pleasure in this world. Rowena McCloud. The self proclaimed witch was cheaper than a therapist any day of the week, and she provided tea leaves that were usually the only thing, other than two fingers of whiskey, that put Y/N to sleep after a long, stressful day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rowena ran her long manicured nails along the lines of Y/N’s palms. “You’ve met someone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Here she goes again. Why did I even come here? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Y/N asked herself every time that she came to the tea shop for a visit. Why did she come? She knew the answer, but saying it out loud was too fucking pathetic for words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had no friends, and her relationship with her mother was strained at best. So who else was she supposed to talk to about her issues? She could always ignore them, but that was like cutting wires at random, just hoping the one she was cutting wasn’t the trip wire that would explode her entire life. Bottling up emotions caused frown lines and acne break-outs, and she was too damn old for pimples. So she’d ended up with a Scottish witch examining her love line a little too closely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have not.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh come on, Y/N, you have.” Her green eyes flickered up to meet Y/N’s, her red painted lips curled into an ornery smirk. “I can tell. You’re flushed. What’s his name.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is no </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine. Then what’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>her </span>
  </em>
  <span>name.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Y/N pulled her hand away and crossed her arms in annoyance. “Give me a break, Rowena.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I cannot, I'm afraid, but I can make you tea.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” She couldn’t help but smile as the woman turned away. Even twenty-plus years her senior, they still meshed well together. She looked at her as a second mother, or even better, a friend. If she knew how to have those, of course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why did you come here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t get the promotion.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t seem surprised,” Y/N said, a bite to her words. “I deserved it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course you did,” Rowena said smoothly as she poured a dark, steeped liquid into the small tea cup. “But you’ll have something better.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you say love I’m going to come across this table and smack you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The witch laughed at that, the skin crinkling around her eyes in amusement. “I was going to say sex.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am having sex,” she said with a huff. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not sex that you enjoy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a bold statement. A bold statement that Y/N wasn’t confident that she could disagree with. She thought she enjoyed it, but she never had anything outside of other meaningless connections to compare it to. She’d never wanted more, though. Her one love was her job and that’s how it was always supposed to be. At least before her job royally fucked her. Maybe it was time she started thinking about herself, instead of the firm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I enjoy sleeping with him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You hesitated, love. It’s mighty okay to be unsatisfied. Well, it isn’t okay, but it’s normal. You don’t have to stand for it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She waved Rowena off dismissively, “It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rowena shook her head, her deep red curls bouncing. “Oh sweetie. It shouldn't be </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It should be electric, hot, passionate. You aren’t living your best life if your sex is just </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Her green eyes flashed as she grinned. “You must’ve not slept with him yet, or you wouldn’t be so casual.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re obsessed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t you? You said yes to him, after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had to get him off my back. He was persistent. He wouldn’t take no as an answer.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Take a risk on me, Y/N.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can lie to yourself all you want, but you can’t lie to me.” Rowena tapped the lip of the cup with her index finger. “It’s all in the leaves.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Y/N looked down into the cup that she hadn’t even noticed she’d been sipping. The mushed, wet leaves were at the bottom of her cup, and maybe she just had it on the mind or maybe Rowena was right and magic was in the air, but she could’ve sworn that they looked just like a heart. Lumpy, misshapen, but like one nonetheless. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dean</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Part of Dean worried that she wouldn’t show. That </span>
  <em>
    <span>would </span>
  </em>
  <span>be his luck. Maybe he would deserve it after being a little too intense. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Take a chance on me. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Who the fuck did he think he was? He didn’t normally come off that strong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wouldn’t let him pick her up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“What if you’re a serial killer?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Evidently he hadn’t earned her trust yet, even though he was a perfect gentleman the night before. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>A woman can’t be too safe, Dean.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He liked the way she said his name. She sounded annoyed, but amused at the same time. She couldn’t quite keep up the unimpressed expression. He made it a personal goal to make her smile more than she frowned. She’d look amazing with laugh lines. Everyone should have them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lisa often complained about the lines on her face, and she painted makeup over them to hide the creases and curves. Dean had loved them. They told the story of her life. Laugh lines showed a long, happy life full of laughter and joy. He could never understand why she would want to hide them. It was beyond him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was meeting Y/N in front of the restaurant.  He held two disposable cups in one hand and a paper bag in the other, leaning against the building. He watched people stroll past. They weren’t watching their surroundings, constantly staring straight forward. That was the downside to New York City, no one was interested in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>. All they cared about was the next thing. He supposed it made sense that no one stopped to smell the roses in a city made of steel and concrete. There were no flowers to smell, only exhaust. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean, on the other hand, believed in things that were beautiful. There was always something good to see.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In front of him, a woman bundled her baby in a ball of blue, fluffy blanket to keep him protected from the autumn chill. A man jogged with his dog, whose tongue was out, having the time of his life. A man in a suit, who kissed a woman goodbye as he stepped out of a cab. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Y/N stood across the street, fumbling around her purse for something. He could see her eyebrows furrow even from that distance. She wore a pair of black pants tucked into black boots and a long burgundy sweater. A curl fell into her eye, the rest of her hair tucked into a wide-brimmed hat. She looked different than she had the day before, and he took note of everything about her to add to his mental collection right next to the way she looked first thing in the morning, how she looked when she was angry, and the way her voice sounded when she was drunk. He was excited to learn all he could about her. What was her favorite food? What was her ideal temperature? How did she like her coffee? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wanted to know her, even with the high probability that she would hurt him. He figured that pain was something, and something had to be better than the emptiness he’d been feeling. Pain at least meant that he was still alive. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Y/N hadn’t been able to find her ID even after turning her apartment upside down. The thought of getting another one was weighing on her greatly as she dug around her purse for the small piece of plastic while she waited to cross the street to meet Dean. She was already cursing herself for losing her ID. She was normally better put together than that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that was a headache for another day. Today she was going on a date. How the hell had that happened?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She still couldn’t quite believe that Dean Winchester had convinced her to go out with him. She had felt ambushed in his kitchen with her hangover pressing firmly on her temples, the succulent smell of bacon thick in the air, and his eyes so green that she felt like she was looking at a pasture. How dare he use </span>
  <em>
    <span>charm </span>
  </em>
  <span>against her. She was far stronger than that. At least she’d always thought she was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it was his tanned skin, or the way his t-shirt stretched across his strong chest. He looked down right cuddly and it made her chest all warm, and she couldn’t exactly blame herself for being attracted to him. She was human, afterall. He had to have a hubris just like all the others, a fatal flaw that would make her send him packing. No one was ever good enough, and he was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bartender </span>
  </em>
  <span>for God’s sakes. That should’ve been enough. She needed a man that could understand her and her drive. She needed her equal. Dean Winchester was pretty, but he certainly wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was going on this date to prove that to herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She saw him standing across the street holding two cups of coffee. He looked relaxed with his deep red button up and jeans. The skies were grey, but she could’ve sworn she could see the flash of his verdant eyes even across four lanes of traffic. He was looking right at her, and she peeled her eyes away from him, suddenly feeling unbelievably naked. She tucked a loose curl behind her ear and adjusted her hat. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Get your shit together, Y/N, you are not allowed to do this. You have way more important things to worry about than a boy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She allowed herself to look back at him, and he nodded to her. Dean Winchester was no boy. He was a man, and he knocked her breath right out of her chest as if she’d fallen on her ass right there in the street.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe she had. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dean</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Y/N walked towards him at the crosswalk with a purpose. He half expected her to poke his chest again when she saw him, insisting that she never agreed to this in the first place. Instead she stood in front of him within arms reach and just stared. They said nothing for a beat, her lips parted as she breathed, the cool air fogging between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I got this for you,” Dean said, offering the coffee to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” she responded curtly, taking the cup from him. Their fingers brushed, sending a spark of electricity between them. “So what’s on the agenda?” She raised the coffee to her lips and took a sip, her eyes widening. “This is good.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Best coffee in the city,” he agreed with a wry smile. “I thought we could go for a walk.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She raised an eyebrow. “Where?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugged in response, his eyes meeting hers intensely. She looked suspicious, like she didn’t quite trust him yet. He liked that about her. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>should </span>
  </em>
  <span>be suspicious. She shouldn’t take things at face value. Not everyone is as genuine as they pretend to be. He made a mental note on his list of things he was learning about her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Slow to trust. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do we have to be going somewhere?” Dean asked as he picked a random direction and began to walk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She let out a huff, sending another white puff of fog out of her lips, her boots clicking as she hurried to catch up with him. “What’s the point of walking if you don’t have a destination?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckled a bit and glanced at Y/N. Her forehead and eyes were shadowed from her hat, and he was tempted to reach out and pluck it from her head, but he refrained. “You’d be surprised what you see when you aren’t looking for something.” He nodded to her and led the way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t have a complete plan per say, but he knew New York like the back of his hand. He knew there’d be something worth seeing if they just took the time to slow down and look. “Where are you from?” he asked, glancing at her. He was genuinely curious, wanting to absorb her origins if she would share. Where someone comes from tells a lot about who they’ve grown into.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Brooklyn.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean grinned at her. “I’ll try not to hold it against you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Y/N rolled her eyes and pressed her lips back to her coffee. “Siblings?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“None that I talk to. You?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A half brother,” Dean admitted. “We grew up together, though. He doesn’t feel like half.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that like?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Frustrating,” Dean said with a chuckle. They were getting into a grove, their steps in unison and their hands swinging side by side, but not brushing. Not yet. “Little brothers know how to get under your skin, but it’s also nice to have somebody. He’s my somebody.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hummed to herself and took a big, silent gulp of her coffee. She looked thoughtful. “Maybe it would be nice… to have somebody.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m my own somebody. Always have been.” When she said it she sounded unbelievably lonely, and it made Dean's chest ache. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a new day, Y/N.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she murmured against her cup. “It’s not. It’s the same day over and over again. It’s Groundhog Day in fact.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wasn’t looking at him. She was staring off across the street at something indescribable. She appeared puzzled, far off. She looked beautiful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Past her, the crowd seemed a little too still for New York. There was something off about it, strange, like minnows in a cup, vibrating in circles, but not really going anywhere. He knew what it meant, and he felt the corners of his mouth tug up. She took a step to cross the street, but he touched her shoulder. “Wait,” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Her eyes flickered to him, her shoulder pressing against his hand as she struggled to stop her forward momentum. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just, wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are we waiting for?” She huffed out of her nose again. He tried not to let it amuse him too much. She was easily riled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just </span>
  <em>
    <span>wait.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was a born and raised New Yorker, which meant the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>wait </span>
  </em>
  <span>wasn’t in her vocabulary, but he needed her to wait anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll be worth it,” he promised. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” she practically hissed back to him. She crossed her arms in defiance, sipping more of her coffee. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was like a rumble of thunder at the start of a storm, a flash of lightning brightening the sky. The crowd shifted to a halt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the...”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s a beautiful night, we’re looking for something fun to do…”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A man amidst the crowd lifted a stereo above his head. Her eyes widened as the crowd began to dance. Their arms swayed in unison, the steps carefully practiced. They all rotated around a single girl, whose hands were covering her mouth in surprise. Dresses and coats ruffled around them as they twirled in one cohesive movement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a fucking flash mob. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean asked her to wait like she was Rose on the Titanic, and he would meet her at the end of the grand staircase to run away together in eternal bliss. He asked her to </span>
  <em>
    <span>wait</span>
  </em>
  <span>, like a man going off to war. He asked her to wait like she was about to see something worth waiting for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She waited for a fucking flash mob. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Really? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A man in the middle of the mob dropped to his knee as everyone danced around him and the woman standing before him. She watched as he took her hands in a flash between bodies. She looked happy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something settled over Y/N then, something that she couldn’t quite name. It felt like a warmth radiating inside of her chest and vibrating out through her sternum. She placed her coffee cup in the bin next to her, no longer in need of the caffeine to keep her awake. The sight of dozens of strangers pulsating around a woman on the happiest day of her life was enough to keep her awake for days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean’s hand brushed hers then, rough in places, calloused from working hard, but also delicately soft at the palm. His fingers curled around hers and squeezed gently as they stepped off the curb into the street and into the crowd. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound that left her lips was inhuman and honestly forgein to her. It was some kind of mix between a squeal and a laugh of surprise as she found herself amid the dancing people. Dean's other hand slid around her waist and pressed against her lower back, leading her in a fast spin. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dean!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Y/N was dancing in the street. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dancing. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She didn’t dance! It was absurd, childish... </span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she corrected. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s fun. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean spun her out and then back in, so quickly that she almost lost her hat right off of her head. She let out a laugh as her chest brushed against his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He guided her effortlessly, and she had never fancied herself a dancer, let alone a good one, but there was something about being led by Dean that made her question that maybe, this whole time, it was just a partner that she was missing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She should’ve been at work, but instead she was dancing in the street with a bartender. Her caseload was left on her desk for the first time in almost a decade her mind wasn’t thinking five steps ahead. Dean Winchester took her hand and spun her into the present and to her pleasant surprise, she allowed it to happen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The song ended, and the busy commuters stopped their dance and continued on their way. There was always another place to be, a meeting to attend, coffee that was getting cold and needing </span>
  <em>
    <span>another </span>
  </em>
  <span>microwave. Just then she heard the horns blaring from irritated cabbies that were made to wait from the frolicking. She was tempted to flip them the bird, but she knew that if the roles were reversed she would’ve honked, too. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Just run them over!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she would have insisted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was more fun to be the one in the street, she concluded. More fun, but far less sustainable. She wasn’t the kind of woman that danced in the street. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean, on the other hand, was clapping and grinning. She half expected him to pump his arm in excitement. Her mood was souring as the glitter of the situation faded away. The novelty had worn off as soon as Dean’s hand left hers to applaud the dancers. She no longer felt like she was a part of the moment, but more that she was a bystander that had inserted herself - which she was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s go,” she said, her voice far sharper than she intended. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean just nodded in response, looking a little surprised. “Sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She quickly crossed the street, wrapping her arms around herself to keep out the chill. She lead the way even though she had no idea where they were going, but she expected that Dean didn’t know much either. They obviously didn’t have a strict schedule to keep if they could stop for minutes and dance in the street. Every minute in New York was precious when there was always a train to catch and another thing to attend. The city pulsed like a heartbeat, it was strange and clinical, and she preferred it that way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he called, grasping at her fingers as they reached the other side of the street. “You good, Y/N?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What kind of answer could she give him? She’d avoided these exact kinds of moments over and over again with Sam and with others before him. She was not the girl that danced in the street. She didn’t fall in love or hold hands or </span>
  <em>
    <span>laugh</span>
  </em>
  <span> usually. She realized, as the thought entered her head how sad it would sound if she could ever say it out loud. If she could ever admit it to herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stopped and turned to him, his green eyes soft with concern. He probably wondered if she’d lost a family member to a flash mob gone awry. What other explanation did she possibly have for the dramatics? The fact that it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>silly </span>
  </em>
  <span>didn’t seem like a nearly good enough reason. “I’m fine,” she assured him. “I just didn’t want to keep holding up traffic.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’ll be fine,” Dean said, a little too dismissively. “They’ll still get where they’re going.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Easy for you to say, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she thought bitterly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on,” he added. “I’ve got somewhere else I want to show you. Hope you’re thirsty.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am, now that you mention it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She could use a strong, dirty martini. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dean</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Y/N was so different from Lisa, Dean almost found it laughable. He wondered if that was why he was so drawn to her. He needed a change. He deserved one. Lisa was a yoga instructor who would’ve never enjoyed the inorganic nature of a flash mob. She would take the time, of course, to watch it. She was flexible enough, but she wouldn’t bend on the big </span>
  <em>
    <span>show </span>
  </em>
  <span>that it made. She also didn’t appreciate cards or flowers. With her all vegan diet and live and let love attitude, sometimes he wondered if she should’ve lived in the woods instead of Manhattan. He supposed, though, that she would have a difficult time finding a low calorie oat milk latte in the woods, so that option was probably off the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watched Y/N walk ahead of him, like she had any idea where they were going, but she was in the right direction so he didn’t see the need to halt her. The look he saw on her face when they danced told him all that he needed to know about her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was stubborn and infuriating, but she had a beautiful laugh. He wanted to keep making her laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Turn here,” he instructed, tapping her shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?” she asked, halting abruptly, causing him to bump into her. His hand gripped her shoulder a little tighter to steady her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckled against her hair, taking in a scent of flowers from what he could only assume was her shampoo. It was intoxicating. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She was intoxicating. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are we going Dean?” She asked with a huff, glancing down the alleyway that he was instructing her to enter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you trust me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grinned with a shrug. “Come, or don’t.” He offered his palm out to her and she stared at it, unsure what she was supposed to do with the gesture. She was tempted to high five it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rolled her eyes and stuck her hands in her pockets instead. His fingers curled into his palm, and he nodded to her, like he understood just fine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walked down the alley, between two massive brick buildings. She glanced up at the cloud-covered sky, feeling unbelievably claustrophobic. Once the alley ended they were deposited into a small neighborhood tucked behind old buildings. Multi-lingual chatter came from all directions, and Y/N got a whiff of a strong fishy smell. Her nose curled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d always imagined if she would be murdered it’d be at a place much like the one she stood in. “Dean?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Trust me,” he urged a little more insistently. There was a glint in his eye that said </span>
  <em>
    <span>trouble</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and she suddenly had the horrible acknowledgment that she barely knew him at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She opened her mouth to object when a high pitched squeal came from a little ways down the block. “Dean?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hola, Elena. ¿Cómo Estás?” he said, jogging to a small latina girl, whose hair was twisted back into two perfect braids. Her dark eyes seemed to brighten as he saw her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“¡Bien! ¿Tu compras limonada?” Her voice was small. She couldn’t be older than seven or eight years old. It wasn’t until that moment that Y/N noticed her small lemonade stand. She had a sign with a giant lemon painted on it and a glass pitcher with fruit pieces floating in it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Si. Of course I am.” He crouched down in front of her and opened his arms for a hug. She obliged, throwing her arms around his neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gracias, Dean.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Yo sediento. You’re doing me a favor,” he said, flashing a bright smile and poking the tip of her nose. She giggled in response. “This is mi amiga, Y/N.” He introduced her, turning his attention away from Elena for the first time since they’d arrived. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The little girl’s dark eyebrows shot up. “Ella es </span>
  <em>
    <span>muy bonita</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she whispered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lo se.” He grinned, and Elena laughed. Y/N felt out of the loop as she stood on the outside of the conversation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean held up two fingers, and Elena nodded quickly to him before going to work on two paper cups of lemonade.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>look </span>
  </em>
  <span>Latino, but perhaps she was still somehow related to him. Maybe she was a friend's child, but that still didn’t exactly explain why he brought her here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaned down and took the cups from her, handing Y/N’s to hers. She held the small paper cup between her hands and, even though it wasn’t her intention, her eyes caught Dean passing little Elena cash for the cups. She thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head as the little girl palmed two crisp $100 bills. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean took a sip and dramatically let out a happy sigh. “Delicious!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elena giggled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Adios, little one.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Adios, Dean.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned to walk away, but Y/N stood there frozen. She had gotten twisted into her own thoughts like she </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>did. “Come on,” he said, tapping her elbow. “We have more to see.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They turned the corner leaving the tight space between buildings and spilling back out onto the bustling New York streets when Y/N grabbed Dean’s hand to stop him. He turned to look at her, his freckled cheeks flushed. She could feel herself frowning, in confusion more than anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why did you give that little girl $200?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean laughed awkwardly and scratched the back of his head. “Best lemonade in New York City.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seriously, Dean.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m being serious.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t be. No one would spend $200 on lemonade.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He let out a sigh. “I came across her a few months ago. Her mom works three jobs and still struggles to feed all the kids. Her dad was deported six months ago and they’re trying to pay legal fees to make the rest of the family citizens. There’s not much I can do, but I can do this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean that’s…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t why I brought you. I didn’t want you to see that. I just… She’s a cool kid, and I wanted you to meet her. Come on. We are going to be late.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was all he said about it. Normally she would’ve assumed that he was showboating in front of her, but the look on his face told her a completely different story. He truly didn’t intend for her to see. He was embarrassed that he couldn’t do more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She felt like an asshole. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She may not be the kind of woman to dance in the street, but Dean Winchester was the kind of man that did. He brought her coffee, he stopped for flash mobs, he bought lemonade from a little girl and talked to her (badly) in her own language. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pressure was rising in her chest and her nostrils burned as tears threatened to escape her. She sucked her breath in and willed herself to get her shit together, because she was suddenly deeply afraid that she was going to fall in love with Dean Winchester.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p>
  <em> Dean </em>
</p><p>Dean was kicking himself. Y/N probably thought he was showboating. She probably thought he was a huge asshole. Maybe he was. In the end, though, if he didn’t get a second date he was determined to at least show her the New York City that he loved so much. He would show her that a job wasn’t the only thing to live for. </p><p>“Come on. We are going to be late,” he said, waving her forward. He let his long legs stride quickly, but not to intentionally leave her in the dust. </p><p>“Where are we going?” </p><p>“You’ll see.” </p><p>She huffed in annoyance, and he smiled a bit to himself. He took a sip of the lemonade, his face twisting. It was really sour. He swallowed the rest of the cup and crushed it in his fist. </p><p>“You know we are pretty busy for a go-with-the-flow day,” she commented. </p><p>He glanced back at her. Her eyebrows were together with judgement. It was really fucking cute. He just grinned back at her. “This is New York, there’s a million things to see.” </p><p>“I thought we were relaxing.” </p><p>“This isn’t relaxing?” he asked seriously. </p><p>Dean felt like his atoms were buzzing inside of his body. He glanced down at his watch. <em> Shit. </em>They were running out of time. “Come on,” he said, taking her hand in his and pulling her along. “We don’t want to miss this.” </p><p>“What is <em> this </em>?” </p><p>“Just trust me!”</p><p>
  <em> Her </em>
</p><p>“No!” Y/N said back to him with a frustration that, she had to admit, was a little dramatic. </p><p>Why was she so bothered by him? She was fighting so damn hard to not enjoy their day, and she was ultimately losing that fight. </p><p>She hadn’t even checked her phone in hours, or thought about her caseload waiting for her back at the office - or if she even still had a job. A sinking feeling settled in her stomach, and she found herself squeezing Dean’s hand for dear life. He squeezed it back, and it almost settled her. Almost. </p><p>“Dean I just…”</p><p>But before the words could escape her lips she stopped, her eyes widening at the sight. They stared at the Hudson, grand and beautiful in front of them. She leaned on Dean a bit, her knees weak at the sight of people all around her, kneeling on the ground. </p><p>“Dean what is this?” </p><p>“Come ‘ere. I’ll show you.” </p><p>He led her down closer to the water where he took two paper lanterns in his hand. He placed one in her hands. It felt thin, fragile. Her eyes welled up. </p><p>“You write down a wish and then we will light the inside and let them go,” Dean explained. </p><p>Other people around them were letting their wishes go, glowing warm and orange against the heavy weight of the clouds above. </p><p>He held out a pen. </p><p>What would she write? What wish did she have? </p><p>
  <em> Make partner.  </em>
</p><p>That felt like the obvious choice, but maybe that was out of her reach now. Dean didn’t say it had to be a reasonable wish, though, so maybe it wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility. She took the pen in her fingers and closed her eyes, clicking it a few times to center herself. </p><p>It wasn’t like it would come true. She had to be realistic. What did she want?</p><p>Her eyes flickered to Dean, who was already writing on his lantern, as if it was the easiest thing in the world to do. His eyebrows were together, focused. </p><p>He was handsome. She couldn’t deny that even if she wanted to. There was something about the freckles on his nose and deep, moss green of his eyes that made her head spin. It was hard to focus when she was looking at him, and she’d spent so long learning how to tune everything out - focus on the goal. </p><p>What was her goal now?</p><p>Maybe she should write that down. </p><p>She looked back at Dean. He seemed so relaxed, his shoulders not coiled tightly like hers, his lips were parted as he breathed easy breaths. She wondered what that was like to have no worries. Maybe bartender would be her next career. </p><p>She snorted internally at that. She could never have such simple life goals. She considered writing <em> pour the perfect cocktail </em>on her lantern. It didn’t seem nearly ambitious enough. </p><p><em> Fall in love </em> , she thought, before her face curled in distaste. <em> That </em>certainly wasn’t what she was looking for. </p><p>Y/N’s eyebrows raised as she glanced at Dean’s hands, trying to catch a peak at his wish for inspiration. </p><p>“Hey, no cheating,” he scolded with a smirk, his eyebrow quirked. </p><p>God, he was infuriating! </p><p>God, he was <em> beautiful </em>. </p><p>She shook off the thought as soon as it came into her mind. “As if I would,” she said with a dismissive eye roll. He snorted in amusement and nodded. </p><p>“Mhm.” </p><p>“I’ve never cheated in my life, Dean Winchester.” </p><p>“I’m sure you haven’t.” </p><p>She didn’t like his insinuation, and her mood was quickly souring. </p><p>“Hey, don’t make that face.” </p><p>‘What face?” she asked, feeling her upper lip curl more. </p><p>“That one,” Dean said with a laugh, tapping her lip with his thumb. </p><p>She resisted the urge to reach out and bite the tip of his thumb out of sheer annoyance. It lingered there, slowly caressing her lip, and her breath caught in her throat. The corner of her mouth ticked up a bit into a ghost of a smile. </p><p>“That’s better,” he whispered, moving his hand and going back to his lantern. “Got it figured out?” </p><p>Had she?</p><p>Her chest burned from the breath that she didn’t realize that she was holding. She nodded quickly, because <em> yes. </em>She knew exactly what she would write. </p><p>
  <em> Dean </em>
</p><p>Dean watched Y/N scribble something onto the lantern and hold it against her chest. “Ready?” </p><p>She nodded quickly and offered him a shy smile. Something had shifted in her expression that he couldn’t quite identify. Her face had softened, and she cradled her lantern with care, as if it were important. Maybe it was. </p><p>Those around them were lighting their lanterns, but had yet to release them. They were all following an unspoken timeline. He handed her a match and they each took a turn striking them against the book. He watched the orange flame dance, burning away the oxygen around it as he lit the small wick inside of the lantern. She followed his example, and their lanterns swelled with heated air. </p><p>They held their lanterns in their palms, and he watched her face brighten in wonder as the crowd around them began to release theirs into the air, creating a sky full of speckled orange stars dancing around them. Their two lanterns floated up, out of reach and, without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around his middle. He smiled to himself and followed her lead, cradling her against him, his arms around her protectively. His chin rested against the top of her hat and they stayed like that for several minutes of quiet bliss. </p><p>There were plenty of lights in the city, but stars weren’t something that those within the city limits were able to see. New Yorkers made their own stars. As a child, he had glow in the dark stars stuck on the ceiling of his bedroom. They were his own personal sky, but it hadn’t occurred to him that the real thing existed outside of the light pollution of the cityscape. </p><p>Dean remembered vividly the first time he left the city and saw the sky light up in brilliance. He cried at the wonder. “They’re like stars,” he commented quietly, watching the lanterns blink away against the dark gray sky.</p><p>“They’re better,” Y/N murmured quietly. “Thank you for bringing me here.” </p><p>“Thanks for comin’ with me.”</p><p>It started slowly at first, a single fat droplet on his nose, rolling down into his mouth. He turned his face up to the sky with a frown, as the sky erupted in a downpour. </p><p>Y/N squealed and grabbed his hand in her small fingers, squeezing them tightly. Dean’s heart immediately skipped a beat, and he squeezed her hand back gently before looking down at her. He tugged her hand, to pull her out of the rain. They began to jog away from the river, up the street and toward the subway. </p><p>He laughed, because no matter how quickly they ran it made no difference - they were soaked. Plus, Y/N’s legs were short compared to his, so they weren’t making great progress anyway. Dean never minded the rain much, he usually enjoyed it, but this rain was cold. He could feel the chill deep in his bones and by the icy fingers in his, he knew Y/N was cold. </p><p>He stepped under an overhang that was protected from the rain, and he unbuttoned and then shrugged out of his red flannel, leaving only a white undershirt in its place. He handed it to her, hoping that it could help her chill a bit. </p><p>“But you’ll get cold.” </p><p>“I’ll be fine.” </p><p>“Dean…” </p><p>He draped it over her shoulders, his hands lingering on her shoulders for just a beat. His eyes flickered to hers, and he saw everything within them. </p><p><em> Her </em> </p><p>The weight of his wet flannel on her shoulders was nothing compared to the weight in his eyes as he stared into her eyes. Dean was looking at her like no one ever had before, and it was shaking something deep within her. Her eyes stung as she felt more vulnerable than she ever had in her entire life. It was like he could see her, really <em> see </em>her - beyond all of the makeup and the facade. </p><p>She wanted him to stop looking at her. </p><p>She never wanted him to stop looking at her. </p><p>Instead of battling that stress inside of her, she decided to let instinct take over. No matter how much she may regret it later, she stood on her tiptoes, her hat falling back off her head to the wet, bustling sidewalk, as she tilted her head to press her lips to his. </p><p>His hand moved from her shoulder to cradle her face as his mouth moved slowly down to press against hers. He tasted like rain and sour lemonade, and his lips were freezing. She pressed closer to him, and he let out a sigh into her mouth, wrapping his other arm around her waist. </p><p>She’d never understood before that moment. When people talked about sparks she assumed that they were just talking about sexual chemistry. Well that was before she kissed Dean Winchester. </p><p>She loosened her jaw to allow him to deepen the kiss and slide his tongue into her mouth. More sparks, electricity, <em> warmth </em>. Her chest bubbled with electricity, and her arms snaked around his shoulders. Rain fell from his eyelashes onto her cheeks, cold as ice, but she couldn’t be bothered. She barely even noticed. </p><p>He pulled back just a bit, their noses brushing, heat from his breath tickling her lips. “You’re shivering,” he said, his voice rough. </p><p>“You’re shivering,” she said, trying for snark, but it came out more drunk sounding. Her damn voice betrayed her. </p><p>Dean ran his thumb across her bottom lip, and he smiled. “We should go somewhere.” </p><p>Her eyes searched his face, pale from the cold, but still freckled from the sun. She shouldn’t kiss him again.</p><p>She was definitely going to kiss him again. </p><p>Y/N pressed her lips to his before she could talk herself out of it and murmured, “Yes,” against the kiss. </p><p>He snorted a bit and rubbed his nose against hers. “Well, I meant separately.” </p><p>“Hm?” </p><p>His hands surrounded her face, before his fingers tangled into her hair. “Trust me, Y/N, I want to do more of this. A lot more, but I wanna do it the right way.” </p><p>Her eyes narrowed at him a bit. The words didn’t quite click in her head. A big bright red REJECTED sign blinked behind her eyes, and her stomach twisted in on itself. </p><p>“Come by the restaurant tomorrow night after close, and we can have dinner.” </p><p>“That’s late for dinner,” she said, her voice almost pouty. </p><p>He grinned at that, and he looked pretty damn proud of himself, which made her cheeks heat up even more. “It’ll be worth it, just have a snack to tie you over.”</p><p>She looked over his face, examining it for any hint  that she was making an astronomically bad decision. There was none. He looked calm and kind. He didn’t <em> look </em>like someone that would hurt her, but the ones who hurt her usually didn’t. </p><p>“Okay,” she agreed with a quiet voice, because she had to see it through. </p><p>He walked her to the subway, their fingers intertwined together, and when he dropped her off at her stop, he kissed her cheek gently. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Dean promised softly.</p><p>“Tomorrow,” she agreed as she stepped through the open doors of her stop. She climbed the steps, and hoped he was watching her go. She walked two blocks down to her building and climbed the stairs. When she finally checked her phone.</p><p>She had a dozen missed calls and texts from Sam. The most recent being: <em> please talk to me. I’m sorry. Let me explain.  </em></p><p>Her heart squeezed and maybe it was because she’d been with Dean for so long, and he was warming the icy parts of her heart. She would curse him for it later, but in the meantime she pulled out her phone and texted Sam. </p><p>
  <em> Meet me at the Cafe in 20.  </em>
</p><p>She saw the dots pop up immediately, indicating that he was typing. They bounced for a while before he must have changed his mind and just responded with a thumbs up emoji. </p><p>In retrospect, he made the right call. </p><p>Y/N went into her apartment to change. She braided her hair and put a ball cap on her head along with a sweatshirt, leggings, and her warmest boots. The chill hadn’t left her bones, and the longer she was away from Dean the more the warmth that kissing him gave her faded away. </p><p>She shivered and opted to shrug into her coat. </p><p>She made it to the cafe promptly, to find Sam already sitting in their usual spot with her typical order. She walked to him with confidence and sat down, grabbing her cup. “I need you to know that I’m not exactly in a forgiving mood.” </p><p>She was never in a forgiving mood.</p><p>“But you are hearing me out,” he said quietly, his voice nervous, contemplative. </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“That’s all I can ask for.” He took a deep breath, and the wrinkle in his forehead told her that he was putting his words together. She’d seen the same look during cases. He was taking this seriously, and that made her smile. </p><p>“I need to start by saying I’m sorry.” </p><p>“You said that already.” </p><p>“Yeah, but I don’t think you heard me.” </p><p>She frowned immediately. “Well I did. I just didn’t <em> believe </em>you.” </p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Because you’re still on the case, and I’m not? Do I need to spell it out for you?” </p><p>He sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose, and she immediately regretted coming. She was having an amazing day, and she allowed Sam to fuck it all up. She took a sip of her coffee, and it may have been the only thing good in the entire world. She closed her eyes and stood up, the steam wafting up her nose. </p><p>“Y/N, wait.” </p><p>She opened her eyes and looked at him. Sam looked up at her with big, sappy puppy eyes and it tugged on her a bit - but not enough. “Sam,” she said with a scolding tone. “If you’re waiting for my permission to work the case you aren’t going to get it.” </p><p>He stood up quickly. “That isn’t why I asked you here.” </p><p>“Then why?” </p><p>“I want you to partner with me. You’re right, Y/N. You deserved to be lead on this case. But you taught me to be a shark, and if I passed this up they still wouldn’t have picked you. I don’t say that to be mean, I say that because they’re assholes. This way you can still work on it and prove that you deserve to be up there.” </p><p>She pulled her eyes away from him to consider his proposal. She at least didn’t <em> think </em>that he was full of shit, but she wasn’t exactly a human lie detector. Usually, though, she finds that when a man orgasms in her presence often enough, she can tell when he’s lying as long as she’s paying attention. </p><p>She didn’t think he was. </p><p>Sam Wesson was definitely naive, but he wasn’t malicious. </p><p>So she thought back to Dean and wondered what he would say. What would his advice be? She didn’t know him well enough to feel like she could conjure his voice out of thin air. </p><p>Just as she began to feel completely defeated, the lanterns popped into her head, and she let out the breath that she didn’t realize she was holding and she nodded. “Yeah, okay.” </p><p>“Okay?” His eyebrows shot up in excitement. </p><p>She turned to him and pressed her finger to his chest and narrowed her eyes. “But don’t fuck me over, Sam Wesson, or it’ll be the last thing you ever do.” </p><p>He nodded quickly, and he wrapped her into a tight hug, tucking her head in the crook of his neck. </p><p>She didn’t find comfort in the hug, but she let out her breath anyway, slow and calming. The single word that she had written on her lantern was still fresh on her mind and it glowed bright on her eyelids when she closed her eyes. </p><p>
  <em> Breathe.  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
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